


The Family Honour

by Philomytha



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold
Genre: AU, Gen, Time Period: Vorkosigan Regency
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-23
Updated: 2011-02-23
Packaged: 2017-10-15 21:33:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/165142
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Philomytha/pseuds/Philomytha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rulf does his best to uphold the Vorhalas honour.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Family Honour

**Author's Note:**

> Written for zahri_melitor in the Winterfair ficathon for the prompt 'Rulf Vorhalas. Either his friendship with Aral when he's younger, or an AU where he survives Escobar would be nice.'
> 
> With thanks to [Avantika](http://archiveofourown.org/users/avanti_90/pseuds/avanti_90) for beta-reading.

Rulf stood in the grand entrance of the Imperial Residence, watched by an unsmiling guard. He wasn't technically gatecrashing a party at the Residence, because Aral had told him he wanted to see him as soon as he was cleared to return to work by the medics, but he hadn't been invited either, and so he was waiting here whilst messages went back and forth. In truth, he didn't mind, both because he needed to catch his breath and because he wanted a moment to think. To be sure this was the right thing to do.

He looked around, but there were no other guests nearby. That was good. The-Count-his-brother and the boys would probably be here tonight, but Rulf didn't want to see them. Not like this. He'd been successfully avoiding them for several days. Not much longer, now.

He'd still been in hospital for Aral's confirmation and Ezar's funeral, and had only managed to talk his way out at last was when he'd finally forced his doctor to admit that he wasn't going to get any better than this. A medical discharge with full honours--not to mention another damned medal--was a lot better than being another name on the great cenotaph, of course, but it felt strange to be wearing his House uniform instead of his dress greens. At least he was back on his feet now, free of that damned float chair and the pitying or disgusted looks it won him.

"The Lord Regent will see you, my lord," the messenger said as he returned.

It was odd to think of Aral as Regent, when he had such vivid memories of them playing together as boys, the two second sons thrown together and instantly agreeing that it was better to be the spare than the heir. Well, Aral was more than the heir now, he was the Emperor in all but name. And Rulf was still the second son, now thoroughly unemployed.

He followed the servant, noticing with a grimace the way the the young man consciously slowed his steps so that Rulf could keep up and the way he carefully avoided looking at the disfiguring scars on Rulf's face.

They went into a small antechamber, and a moment later Aral hurried in, waving away someone who made to follow.

"Rulf," he said, clapping Rulf on the shoulder and smiling. "I'm sorry I haven't been to visit you more lately, but things have been absolutely crazy. How are you doing now?"

"I'm out on a medical discharge," Rulf said. "Pretty much what I'd expected, after everything. Anyway, I've come to make my oath to you. My lord." He didn't want to get drawn into a friendly conversation with Aral, now. It would just make everything harder for both of them.

Aral gave a little half-ironic smile, and Rulf was distracted for a moment by wondering what it was like to have all your old friends, not to mention all the Counts and the General Staff, placing their hands between yours. Less fun than it sounded, in all probability.

He lowered himself to his knees, awkwardly, but without any embarrassing need of assistance from his new liege-lord, and placed his hands between Aral's. Between the Lord Regent's. Once Aral's hands had been between his, when he'd been captain of the _Gloria_ and Aral his first lieutenant, and later he'd pledged himself to Aral when Aral had commanded at Komarr, but those had been the simple military oaths between senior and junior officers. This was different.

An old memory floated in his mind, of those bad years when Ges had done everything he could to drive Aral's old friends away, and the ending, when Aral had showed up on his doorstep half-drunk with blood running down his face and said he'd had enough of Ges and he was sorry for everything and Rulf had been right. Rulf had made him get his face stitched properly and stayed with him until he was sure Aral was going to be all right, and then there had been a scene Rulf hoped Aral had never learned of, when Ges had come chasing after his strayed pet and Rulf had taken considerable pleasure in kicking him down the stairs. But now their positions were reversed with a vengeance.

They spoke the ritual words, and Rulf felt a sense of relief cover him. He could do this now. When he'd finished speaking, Aral moved to help Rulf to his feet, but Rulf shook his head, remaining on his knees. It wasn't comfortable, but it was necessary, for this.

"My lord," he said formally. "I need to tell you something."

Aral's eyes on him were shrewd. "Something you want to tell me now that your hands are between mine?" he murmured. "Very well."

"My memory of what happened when the flagship blew up has been coming back in bits," he said. "At first, I couldn't remember anything of that day, or the period before, practically the last thing I remembered was saying goodbye to you and going off to the front, then nothing till I woke up two months later in the Escobaran military hospital. But it's been coming back, and a few days ago I remembered what happened, and I need--I need to tell you. It's about the Prince."

Aral's face went still, and he held up a hand. Rulf fell silent at once. Aral spoke into his wrist-com. "Simon? I need to be private, please."

Rulf could hear Aral's security commander's response. "Sir, this is the Imperial Residence. Captain Negri has ears everywhere."

"I don't mind Negri. Or you. But nobody else."

"Very well, sir."

Aral lowered his hand. "Carry on, Rulf."

"You know how, when a ship blows, it's not always instantaneous. Well, of course you do, you were there when the _Sword of the Stars_ went up. The flagship was like that. Our shields were down and the plasma fire melted through the hull, but we were in the tac room, and there was a bit of time before it--before it got to us. And I got to the lifepods in time. The Prince was slower." Rulf held himself as straight as he could. "I could have saved him. I know I could have. I remember... deciding not to. He shouted to me to help him, and ... I didn't."

He forced himself to look up at Aral, to see the moment when Aral understood and despised him for it. Instead, Aral's face was frozen, unreadable, and he said nothing.

"If you will permit it," Rulf went on, "to spare the family name, I will... I will take my own life, in payment. I would beg you to spare my brother a trial; this had nothing to do with him, or the boys, I give you my word--"

Aral's hand went up again, and there was a silence. Rulf looked down at the carpet. He didn't regret what he'd done. That was the problem. If it had been a moment of cowardice, confusion, error... any of those things would have been serious, but not this treason he knew he'd committed. He'd left the Prince to die because he'd wanted the Prince to die.

"No," said Aral. Rulf bowed his head, but Aral continued. "No. There is no evidence except your memory. And that is not enough."

"But--" Rulf began.

"No. I saw the medical reports. Severe trauma, including head injuries. As you said, you were in a coma for two months. I cannot condemn you based on what may be nothing more than your own imagination creating false memories to fill the gaps. And I've lost too many friends to Escobar. I'm not going to count you amongst them."

Rulf knew it was a true memory, that the head injury had been a whole different problem and hadn't affected this, but he looked at Aral's face and bit his tongue.

"If you believe," Aral said abruptly, "you have done anything that requires it, you are absolved, by Imperial order." He put out his hand again, and this time Rulf took it and let Aral help him up and pass him his cane. "But I don't think you have." He frowned. "Come and sit down," he added, eyeing Rulf.

Rulf was happy enough to obey, and he sat on the sofa alongside Aral and stretched out his aching legs stiffly.

"You remember that training accident when I was an ensign?" Aral said. "I was unconscious for a week afterwards. I never really remembered what happened, and the memories I had left were very patchy. I truly do not think you can be sure enough that this even was something real.

"It was," Rulf said quietly.

Aral merely shook his head. "Regardless. As my friend, Rulf. Drop it. Don't let it worry you. You did nothing to stain your honour." There was a peculiar emphasis in that last sentence that made Rulf look hard at Aral, catching him for an unguarded moment. He'd known Aral for a long time, and he recognised the expression on his face. Guilt. Rulf felt a cold chill go over him. He knew, and he knew Aral knew, that it was a mercy and a blessing that the Prince had died, but could there have been more to it... he stopped himself from following that line of thought any further. He'd committed enough treason. Whatever had happened, whatever had been done, this was where they were now.

"Well," he finally said, "I wanted you to know."

"Then you'll have to abide by my judgement. If you trust me at all, believe that the Prince's death was not your fault." Aral stood up and paced across the room in a familiar pattern. He looked at Rulf, and for a moment seemed about to say something more, then gave a little shrug as if shaking something off his shoulders. "Enough. I need all the friends I can get right now."

Rulf exhaled slowly. It was true, he did trust Aral, even for this. Especially for this. He'd taken his cut of Yuri too, after the civil war, and he'd seen Aral that day. "All right," he said slowly. He waited whilst Aral came to sit down again, regaining his equilibrium.

"Do you want a job?" Aral said after a moment. "If you felt able to take a desk job of some kind--I have a lot of open spaces and nowhere near enough trustworthy men to fill them. Ezar was throwing Grishnov's cronies out right and left, these past months, and it's left a lot of vacancies. You can name the job you want. It's yours."

"Vorish nepotism at its best," Rulf said, making an effort to smile.

"For you? Yes." Aral returned the smile with an equal effort, and Rulf dipped his head in acknowledgement. So. He cast back to what he had been thinking of doing, before this memory had surfaced in his mind, once he'd realised he couldn't go back to the Service. "Is there something in the Galactic Ministry?" he asked at last. "Don't tell anyone, but I actually enjoyed some of that terrible paperwork you made me do after Escobar."

"It was an act of charity to your doctors. You were driving them insane. Someone had to distract you before they sent you back to the Escobarans with a note asking them to do the job properly this time." Aral thought for a moment. "The Diplomatic Service needs a new head; the last one was Grishnov's man. And I know you've done a few stints in galactic embassies."

Rulf blinked. "But... is that enough experience?"

Aral gave a wry laugh. "No. But you're not the only one with that problem, these days. And you'll pick it up quickly."

"Well," said Rulf, "if that's where you want me, I'll be happy to serve."

"Good." Aral suddenly smiled, a real, wide smile of a kind Rulf had rarely seen on his friend's face, not for years. "I'll be glad to have you working with me again. And you won't make me feel like an idiot the way Vortala does."

"Only when you really deserve it," Rulf said, and they both laughed.

"I need to get back to the party," Aral said. His grin twisted a little. "They won't even let me get drunk at them, these days. Are you coming?"

"Are the boys here? I'd like to surprise them. They don't know I'm back on my feet yet." If Aral had answered otherwise, he would have let them slip away from him. Now he could take a full interest in their lives again.

"I believe so. I think I saw Evon talking politics, and Carl getting drunk on the Emperor's wine. Come on, then."

Rulf braced himself as they entered the party, and was both surprised and faintly reassured to see Aral doing the same. They exchanged glances of complete understanding, and then Aral was swept off into a political-looking huddle of men, and Rulf was alone.

It was strange to find himself the target of curious, faintly hostile stares. War-wounded men were supposed to keep themselves decently out of sight, and the young girls in particular edged away from him as if being blown up by plasma mirrors might be heritable. He saw Evon standing talking to Count Vordarian, but when Rulf approached, Evon's face lit.

"Uncle Rulf! Sir!" he exclaimed, interrupting Vordarian's remarks. He flushed a little, said, "Excuse me, my lord," to Vordarian and embraced Rulf.

"You only saw me three days ago," Rulf said drily, returning the embrace. The-Count-his-brother's boys had been in and out of his hospital room and his rooms at Vorhalas House ever since he'd returned from Escobar.

"But not like this--you never said!" Evon protested.

"Lord Rulf," Vordarian said pleasantly, interrupting Evon in turn with a winning smile split between them, "how good to see you." His eyes, however, were cool and measuring, and Rulf could feel the political undercurrents drawing him in. That Vordarian was no friend to Aral's rule was well known, that Count Vorhalas was undecided between them was equally well known. Vordarian had evidently been courting Evon, but Rulf's appearance on the scene would throw that off.

Well, if Aral wanted him in his government, he'd better earn his keep. "I thought I'd surprise you," Rulf said to Evon. "Come show me where I can find a drink and tell me how your troubles with your French corporal worked out." He caught sight of another familiar face a little way off and added a final piece of bait. "And I'll introduce you to Kanzian there, if you like."

Vordarian, polite in defeat, said merely, "Of course you must go with your uncle," as Evon glanced at him apologetically, and Rulf carried his nephew off.

"You don't like Vordarian, do you?" Evon asked as they found drinks.

"He's honourable," Rulf said, "but I don't care for his politics. He has no understanding of what the military is for."

"He's served, though," Evon said.

"Oh yes, of course. But not everyone learns the same lessons from their service. Ask Kanzian to tell you the story of the bomb disposal squad and the Greekie sergeant, he'll know the one." A story in which Vordarian came across in an extremely unflattering light.

Evon grinned, suddenly boyish. "I'm so glad you're back," he said. He hesitated a little. "I was wondering ... do you mind me asking...?"

"You can ask me what you please," Rulf said.

"When you were at Escobar. I've never been in real combat. We've just been marking wormholes at Komarr, you know, it's very boring. But you were leading ships up against the Escobarans' secret weapon. What was it like?"

Rulf leaned more heavily on his cane. "I don't know," he said. "I don't remember any of it." He'd spoken more sharply than he'd meant to, and Evon looked away. "I'm sorry. The doctors say that kind of memory loss is normal after serious injuries. But I do remember it was frightening." He turned to face Evon full on. "I know you're eager, but... that's a situation no leader wants to take his men into. Be grateful for your boring duties."

Evon nodded slowly. He was growing up, Rulf thought. If only Carl would do the same.

They made their way across the room, and Rulf presented Evon to Kanzian and some other military men, watching with a certain amusement as Evon flushed to his hairline as he met his hero.

"Do you know where Carl is?" he asked before leaving them to it.

"I saw him heading off with some of his town clown friends towards the old kitchens," Evon said, with a slightly disdainful curl of his lip. "With a lot of wine."

Rulf nodded, clapped Evon on the shoulder and began to weave his way through the crowd. His joints were starting to ache, and dodging around the mass of people was much harder than he remembered it being. A lot of things were harder than he remembered, and he couldn't help feeling a twinge of envy as he saw the couples dancing, light and fluid on their feet. Another thing he'd lost at Escobar.

The old kitchens were one of the sights of the Imperial Residence. Long superseded by the modern and much more spacious kitchens in the new wing, they were somewhere between a museum and a private saloon, popular amongst the young town clowns when big parties were held at the Residence. Rulf paused, shifted his cane from one hand to the other, then reached for the handle of the door.

Then he paused, hearing raised voices inside.

"He's no mutant!" That was Carl, his voice impassioned and a little thickened. "He was honourably wounded at Escobar. You'll apologise to my House at once!"

Rulf stepped back again, grimacing. It was no surprise that Carl was having to put up with that kind of thing, but it was rather touching that he should defend his uncle. But it would only embarrass them all if he interrupted this particular argument. Best to wait a few minutes, let them cool their heads. He picked up a drink from a side table and sipped it, then stopped. From beyond the door, he heard the unmistakeable sound of a sword being drawn from a rusty sheath.

Rulf set the drink down and returned to the door, then heard metal ring against metal. He flung the door open.

Carl was facing Antonio Vorinnis, both holding old kitchen knives and swords that Rulf was pretty sure were purely ornamental, drunkenly intent on each other. Rulf slammed his cane down a little more loudly than necessary, step-click, step-click, and in the silence, everyone turned to look at him.

"Brawling?" he said cuttingly, in tones that had once been able to cow an entire squad of high-spirited recruits. "Put those down at once."

"We're not brawling," Carl, the idiot, retorted, in tones of stung honour. "We're duel--"

"You're brawling," Rulf said sharply before Carl could confess to a capital crime to his face. He moved more rapidly than was quite comfortable so that he was between the boys. "Drunken brawling, like gutter rats. I won't have it. Put down those knives, put those decorations back on the wall. Have it out with your fists if you must." He paused. "Or you could settle your affairs like adults. What's this about?"

As he'd expected, neither of them answered. Carl looked fixedly ahead, and Antonio stared at his feet. Then he whispered, "Mutant," and Carl lunged forwards with his sword.

Rulf raised his cane and whipped it across Carl's old sword. The ancient and brittle metal snapped. Carl jumped and dropped the reverberating handle, his mouth open. Antonio was backed up against the wall, staring at the quivering point of the sword as it lay at his feet. They both looked suddenly a lot more sober.

"Put them down. Now. Carl, come with me."

"But Uncle Rulf--" Carl began.

Rulf cheated then. He let himself falter a little, as if he'd lost his balance. Carl, who was as chivalrous as he was hot-headed, promptly moved to help him, and had no choice but to put the knife down. Rulf put his weight on Carl's arm, effectively immobilising him.

"Come with me," he repeated. "And don't cosset me. I may be a three-legged mutant, but I could still wrestle you and your town clown friends to the ground."

Carl laughed, as he was meant to, but Rulf kept his arm trapped in his own. Inwardly, he was shuddering. If Carl really had managed to get into a duel with the two swords--no matter that they were wall decorations and kitchen knives--the consequences could have been terrible. He made his way to the door, not releasing Carl, and only relaxed a little when there was a door between Carl and the other boys.

"You," he informed Carl, "are an idiot."

"He said--" Carl began, then stopped, blushing.

"I can guess what he said. If it doesn't bother me, I don't see why it should bother you. These young care-for-nobodies don't know the first thing about war. They'd wet their pants if they were in a ship under fire."

"I wouldn't!" Carl protested instantly. "I'm not a coward."

"No, you're a hot-headed idiot," said Rulf. "Brawling over petty insults like a schoolboy. If you want to fight, do it in uniform like a man."

Carl stared at the floor, now very red-faced. Rulf watched him thoughtfully.

"You've got courage and brains," he said. "If you really want to uphold the family name, there are plenty of things you can do beyond getting into drunken brawls at parties. Come talk to me about it."

Slowly, Carl began to smile.

*

The following morning, Rulf reported to the Office of the Lord Regent for his formal induction. "Nothing," he told Aral, "absolutely nothing you have lined up for me is going to be as bad as last night. I had to drag that idiot Carl off one of his boon companions, and then he spent almost three hours telling me all his sorrows." He grinned suddenly. "But I did finally persuade him to let me sponsor him into the Academy. We've all been trying for months to talk him round, but he's finally come over. So bring on your diplomats. They can't possibly be as hard as that was."

Aral laughed. "I'm glad to hear it. He seems a promising boy. And as for the rest--well, we'll see what you say at the end of the day."


End file.
